


we're gonna rattle this ghost town

by orphan_account



Series: breaking all the rules [1]
Category: Saving Private Ryan (1998)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Everybody Lives, Friendship, Gen, General Antics, Roommates, with hints of shipping throughout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-14 16:51:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10540572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Out of cash and out of luck, all Upham knows is that he needs a roof over his head before he's kicked out of his apartment. When his English professor offers a free room at Charlie House, it seems like the best deal he's going to get.He's starting to think he should have reconsidered.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I've been sucked into the HBO War fandom, and SPR... just doesn't have much of a fandom? Or content whatsoever, which I find discouraging. I mean, hell, the movie was definitely painful enough to deserve an everybody-lives au.
> 
> So, in lieu of one, I'm doing it myself.
> 
> Shipping won't be the main focus of this fic, but ships will be present as the series goes on. Caparzo and Mellish are basically a thing, and Wade/Reiben will be -- eventually. They've got a long way to go.

Midway through the last written essay of his exam, Upham’s pen breaks.

It doesn't run out of ink. It doesn't sputter and die in a dramatic fashion, dragging out his efforts for lines of barely legible indentations before finally quitting on him. Instead it _snaps_ in half, without cause or explanation, and if that doesn't say something about the week Upham’s been having he doesn't know what does.

A fantastic explosion of ink sprays out, like an artery severed clean through. Upham’s paper takes most of the hit, but neither his shirt nor face are spared. A loud exclamation of _“shit!”_ bursts past his lips before he can stop it. Just like that, the hall’s relative quiet is shattered. The attention of the entire class suddenly turns to him as Upham leaps to his feet, scrambling to control the damage.

“Mister Upham,” says Professor Miller. “Is everything okay?”

Upham is preoccupied blinking ink out of his eyes -- which, as it turns out, burns. “Uhh, no -- yes, I mean, yes, sir. Everything’s -- _fuck! Fine!_ I'm fine.”

He fights the urge to spit as a bit of ink drips into his mouth. This is probably poisonous -- he's probably going to wind up _dying_ because of an exploded pen, which would be the perfect way to cap off the worst week of his life. A sharp snort from the TA, Horvath, makes Upham’s cheeks burn. Miller blinks, unimpressed, as Upham unintentionally smears more ink across his face.

It's a few painfully long seconds before Miller gives up. “Go clean yourself up, Upham. You can finish the essay after class.”

By this point, Upham is more than willing to take any excuse he can get to leave. “Y- yes sir,” he stammers, fumbling with his bag. He forces himself to ignore the snickers following his back as he jogs up the aisle and out of the lecture hall. On his way out, he slams his ruined essay into a garbage can.

As he stalks away from the hall, he does his best not to glower down at the drying ink on his hands. He’a grateful for the escape, and thankful it happened in a class where the professor would be sympathetic. Miller is a good teacher -- exceptionally fair, in Upham’s opinion (though to be fair half of his teachers are language teachers, who are all their own species of chaotic evil). He's understanding of Upham’s heavy courseload, and equally confident in his student’s ability to handle it.

(Usually Upham _can_ handle it -- he has no problem devoting himself fully to academics. That’s what he's been doing since middle school; by now it's a force of habit. He doesn't struggle in his classes. He doesn't fall behind, and he doesn't crack under exam pressure. In the learning environment, he thrives. This, as it turns out, is half his problem. By this point Upham would be more than happy to never see the inside of a classroom again.

Or… at least, not for a few weeks. A month, maybe.)

It would not be an exaggeration to say that Miller is Upham’s favorite teacher. English literature class is one Upham always looks forward to -- even today, knowing he had a large test he'd been far too distracted to study for. His distraction shouldn't have mattered. He was doing _fine_ , and he would have passed just _fine_ had his damn pen not burst --

Upham curses and aims a kick at a nonoffensive trash can in his path. His for reverberates with the impact, and he's sent hopping away with more curses spilling past his lips. He hasn't sworn this much since -- ever. His mother would have a field day if she could hear him.

By the time he finally gets back to his apartment, he's exhausted enough that he considers foregoing a shower altogether. The ink is sticky, however, and he feels gross; he forces himself into the bathroom, rubbing sleep deprivation from his eyes. When he looks in the mirror, he can't tell if the mess of ink improves his haggard appearance or not. He winds up spending fifteen minutes under the stream of water, long after it's gone cold; he allows it to fall over his head, a cascade incapable of washing away the anxieties that cling to him with more stubbornness than ink.

He doesn't bother with more than underwear before he flops down on his bed, asleep in less than a minute. The half-packed boxes that litter the otherwise spartan bedroom go ignored.

Upham is becoming talented at ignoring things these days. 

* * *

 

“Thank you for the extra time,” Upham says as he places his completed essay on Miller’s desk. “I really appreciate it.”

“Wouldn't have had much luck reading your last one after you drowned it in ink,” says Miller. Upham huffs out what he meant to be a laugh; it comes out as a sigh. He tries to cover it up by shuffling his bag on his shoulder, but Miller’s too sharp to miss it. “This isn't like you, Upham. What's going on?”

“Uhh, nothing’s going on. Sorry, sir.”

“Don't apologize. If you're having personal problems it isn't your fault; but once it starts affecting your academics, that's where I get concerned.” Miller folds his hands over his desk, frowning at Upham. It's a challenge not to shift under his gaze; Miller has intense eyes, intelligent and perceptive. It's always been a challenge for Upham to lie to the man. He’s more than likeable, he's trustworthy; Miller is the type of teacher who makes it easy to open up to him. Suddenly Upham feels his resolve splinter. Though he knows that Miler has far more important things to worry about than a college kid’s home problems, the dam inside of him has been weak enough to give for a long time, and finally it does.

It's just him and Miller in the empty hall. There’s no one here to hear, and there’s no one else who would care. Upham inhales a breath, and the words spill out before he can stop them.

“It's just my apartment, sir. I don't -- I can’t make the rent anymore, since my parents and I…” He almost chokes on the words before he can force them out. “Are no longer in contact. And I've been trying to get a job, but nothing pays enough, and I don't have the time, and I've been searching for a new place for a while but I'm getting kicked out next week… and I don't know what to do, sir. So… if I've been distracted, that's why. It's hard to focus.”

Miller nods his understanding, solemn. Upham feels embarrassingly close to whimpering. The relief at finally telling someone is intense, as is the reality of the situation -- which finally hits him once he stops talking. Putting it into words makes it more real than he wants to admit, and he feels the sudden urge to pick up his phone and speed dial his mother. He hasn't felt that urge for… a while. It's been long enough that he thought it had gone away. “It's hard to… think, sir,” he finishes with a swallow, breaking his gaze from Miller’s. “I'm just… working on it.”

He isn't sure if he'd expected Miller would give advice, but he's surprised when the man speaks anyway. “Have you considered student housing?”

“I can't afford it. And even if I could, I don't think they have space for me in the middle of the year.” He doesn't mention how hellish dorm life sounds to him -- crammed into a room with two or three other guys, like sardines in a can. Upham has never done well with closed quarters, or with having his privacy encroached on. One of the benefits to growing up an only child was that he didn't have to share anything.

Miller frowns down at his hands, deep in thought. He really doesn't have to be. Upham doesn't want his problems to become anyone else's, especially a professor’s; especially Miller’s. He's about to say as much when Miller speaks again.

“You're actively looking for an apartment now? And you've had no luck?”

“It's not just that, sir. I couldn't, umm…” There's no dignified way to confess that you're as good as penniless. “I couldn't afford it if I found one.”

“What about tuition?”

Upham shrugs. “That's the one thing my parents are still paying for.” To his parents, school has always been top priority. Upham supposes he doesn't fall so far from the tree there.

Miller looks exceedingly serious for a moment, and Upham wilts under his gaze. He's never been the student who gets personal with teachers. All his past academic relationships have remained strictly at arm-length. Opening up to a teacher (or anyone, really) is unventured territory.

Then Miller lifts his head, and Upham’s spine straightens against his will. “Upham,” says Miller, “I'm about to make a suggestion that leaps over all realms of professional distance. Are you ready?”

Upham nods in earnest.

“You know Charlie House, down on Normandy Avenue? Big thing, Victorian, badly in need of a paint job?”

Upham clears his throat before nodding again. To be fair, Charlie House would be hard to miss. Smack in the middle of a suburban street, it is a towering behemoth of peeling blue paint and wideset windows. A few of the shingles are hanging crooked; others litter the lawn, having given up entirely. Upham can just see the roof of Charlie House from his current apartment building, but he's never given it much thought before. The house has always just been there; he'd guess it's as old as the college, maybe even the town itself.

“Well, it's my house. I own it, and I'm currently renting it out to a few of my students in similar positions to you.” When Upham’s eyebrows shoot up, Miller smirks. “There was room, no one was living there, and it's makes it easier for me to afford the place. It was my grandfather’s before it was mine, and I've got my own house and family. Anyway, there’s about six guys there now -- Mike’s one of them.”

“I'm what now?” asks TA Horvath, sounding vaguely interested as he walks in through a side door, a stack of folders balanced in his arms.

“Living in Charlie.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Horvath sets the folders down on his own desk with a graceless thump. He shrugs, glancing from Upham to Miller. “It's pretty good there. Better, since I've got my own room.”

Upham is confused. Not at Miller renting out his spare house -- he seems generous enough to do that -- nor even at Miller renting to Horvath (it's obvious that the two are close, closer than the usual TA-professor pairs Upham sees). He doesn't understand what this has to do with him.

Miller must sense his confusion, because he laughs softly as he rises from his desk. “One of our guys just dropped out, so there’s room. If you need a place to stay, you're welcome in Charlie House.”

Upham blinks, stunned by the request. It's at once more than he could have hoped for and everything he didn't want. The cons are obvious: living with roommates (noisy, rambunctious _strangers)_ , living in Charlie House (decrepit, old, maybe haunted), plus having to pay rent he doesn't have. On the other hand, it's father in his search for a new home than he's gotten in any of his apartment hunts.

“I - I don't have any money,” he finally says. “I couldn't pay you --”

“Don't worry about that. You're smart enough to find a job, Upham -- I know a few of the others there will help you if you want them to. Until then, you wouldn't have to worry about paying.” When Upham still seems speechless, Miller holds up his hands. “It's up to you. The offer’s open, if you want it. Otherwise, good luck. I really hope everything works out, and if you need anything else in class, you can ask me.”

The offer is more generous than Upham could have imagined. He is left paralyzed as Miller gathers up his briefcase, clears his papers off his desk, and starts walking up the aisle. “Goodnight, Mister Upham,” he says over his shoulder. “Goodnight, Mike!”

“Don't be late for dinner! The wife’ll get pissed!” Horvath calls, the barb tossed out so casually that Upham barely registers it as teasing. He's still trying to process the offer when Horvath walks past him, folders balanced precariously in his arms once more. He's only jarred when a heavy hand suddenly claps him on the back.

“If I were you, I'd take it,” Horvath says. “You won't get a better offer. It's a good place.”

With that, Upham is left standing in the empty lecture hall.

* * *

Later, as he stares at the empty wall of his empty apartment, surrounded by overflowing boxes, he decides.

_What the hell?_

He doesn't have anything to lose. He’s already cut ties with his family; he has less than a week before he's going to be on the streets; he can't even afford electricity in his crapsack apartment.

Miller’s offer is the best he's going to get, and he's not an idiot.

Upham stands up, walks into his bedroom, and finally finishes packing his things. 

* * *

 

He isn't sure what he expects to find when he pulls up to Charlie House for the first time, but it isn't two guys in a tree.

Correction: there is one man sitting high up in the very tall oak tree sitting on the front lawn. Another man seems happy to stay on the ground, but is clinging to the tree trunk as he yells instructions up at his buddy.

“Come on, just crawl on the branches! They're not that small, they can hold you easy!”

“I don't know,” calls the guy in the tree, sounding like he really wishes he wasn't twenty feet off the ground. “They're kinda rocking…”

“It'll be fine!”

“I don't think it will!”

“I'm tellin’ ya, just do it!”

“Umm.” Upham shuts his car door with a loud noise. “Are you guys okay?”

The guy on the lawn spares him a baffled glance before making an ‘okay’ sign with his fingers and turning back to his friend. “Yeah, buddy, were fine. Carpy, just go to the damn window!”

The guy in the tree shifts. He is not a small man, and the branch he is on clearly can not support his weight. It creaks, dipping perilously, and he beats a hasty retreat to the trunk once more.

“No way!”

The guy on the ground swears, pressing a hand to the back of his head. He has dark hair, mussed from what Upham assumes is the guy running his hand through it, and rich olive skin that sets off dark eyes. The scowl on his face doesn't make him look friendly, but Upham figures he's probably just caught him at a bad time. Is this one of his new roommates?

“Uhh…” Despite the guy obviously ignoring him, he approaches the tree as well. “I'm Upham,” is what he means to say; instead, what comes out is “do you guys need a ladder?”

The earthbound guy shoots him a sharp look. Up in the tree, the other man groans.

“No, what we need is a key to the damn bathroom, and a roommate who isn't stupid enough to lock everyone out of it.” The guy ducks his head and spits a piece of gum onto the grass, before pulling another piece from his pocket and popping it into his mouth. He begins chewing loudly, ignoring Upham’s baffled look. “Carpy, I swear to god!”

“I ain't dyin’ today, Fish!”

“Fish” looks like he wants to have an aneurysm, punch the nearest thing, or both. Upham takes a step back. “Do you trust me or do you not? Huh?”

A pause, and then Carpy says, “I trust you.”

“Okay! Get. To. The damn. Window.”

This encouragement seems to be what does it, because Carpy finally starts moving. He scrambles across the branch faster than his broad frame would suggest is possible; his body moves with a calculated precision that marks him as an athlete. The branch dips sharply, and there is a terrible crack before it gives way. By the time it does, however, Carpy is already halfway through an open window.

Fish swears loudly as he dives out of the way. Upham’s reflexes almost aren't fast enough, but he manages to dive to the grass just before the heavy branch can crash down on top of him. Stunned, his chest heaves as he gapes at the splintered wood for just a moment too long. That had been the closest he’s come to death since he ran out of caffeine last month; already, he decides he doesn't like this house.

“Shit! He actually got in! That slick bastard!”

Fish seems absolutely delighted -- and a little surprised that his plan worked. Upham is concerned. “You mean you didn't think he'd make it?”

“I thought he'd try his damn best.” At Upham’s stare, the guy shrugs. “What, it ain't like I haven't done it before!”

From what Upham saw from the ground, the guy’s friend seemed to have a good twenty pounds on him; but he wasn't about to call his new roommate out when said roommate was apparently the type of person who made his friends climb trees because _“it'd probably be fine.”_

Instead, he just says, “I'm Upham. Tim Upham.”

The guy blinks at him. Upham blinks back.

“Good for you,” he says. “You want an award?”

“No,” replies Upham. “I'm good. I just --”

He glances back at his car, which is still loaded up with the meager contents of his apartment. The entire back seat is crammed with boxes and items, a large picture frame blocking the window. Fish follows his gaze, and he hears the man’s quiet “oh,” as understanding hits him.

“No way. _You're_ the new guy?”

“Yeah,” Upham says. “That’s me.”

“Holy shit,” the guy says, and Upham can't tell if he seems happy or outraged. “Not sure what I was expecting, but you sure ain’t it.”

“Thanks.”

Just then, a shout from above alerts Fish that “we've got the bathroom back!” Instead of reacting with the pleasure this news entails, he raises an arm to his friend and shouts for him to come down.

If they're about to do a whole “Meet The New Guy” session, Upham is happy to opt out. Feeling somewhat awkward, he moved to his car and opens up the back door. Relief hits him when nothing immediately spills out; the sensation fades when he realizes that Fish is standing right next to him.

“You've got a lot of stuff,” he says, even though Upham really doesn't. “Those boxes heavy?”

“I guess.”

Though it’s a non-sequitur, the guy suddenly claps Upham on the shoulder. “Stanley Mellish, nice to meet ya. Don't call me Stanley though, or even Stan, I hate that shit -- Mellish works fine.” Before Upham can even register that he’s shaking the guy’s hand, Mellish drops it and turns back to the car. “Huh. You know, I think we can tackle this.”

“What?”

Before Upham can get an answer as to why his new roommate is opening up his car door, a voice from behind them alerts him to the fact that they aren't alone. “This the new guy?”

Upham’s assessment from twenty feet below had been right; Mellish’s friend is tall and muscular, a shaved head showing off defined facial features. His entire posture suggests he’s an athlete, and the bulging muscles in his arms make it clear that he spends a lot of time in the gym. Upham wouldn't be surprised if this guy had a sports scholarship -- he carries himself with the same confidence.

“Yeah, come say ‘hi’ to our new roommate. Carpy, this is Tom Upham. Upham, Adrian Caparzo.”

“Tim,” Upham says automatically, holding out a hand. “Actually, it's Tim.”

Caparzo stares at him.

“Or, you know, Upham’s good too…”

Mellish already has one of Upham’s boxes in his hands as he walks past his friend, nudging his shoulder. “We’re taking the new guy’s stuff to his room.”

It takes a few seconds for understanding to dawn on his face, but once is does he grins broadly. “Nice to meet you, Upham,” he says, ignoring Upham’s offer of a handshake entirely as he moves to the car. Upham retracts his hand, trying not to grimace. He fails. Caparzo is nice enough not to notice, instead taking several of Upham’s boxes in hand at once. He carries them as if they're nothing. Upham, who had to lug all his stuff out of his old apartment by himself, can't help but be surprised.

With the help of his new roommates, what would have been ages of carrying boxes back and forth is settled in one trip. Upham pulls out the remaining box, slams his car door shut, and follows Mellish and Caparzo into the house.

The interior is nicer than the exterior. It isn't what Upham expected. He thought the house would be furnished sparsely, giving it a cold atmosphere that always seemed to be associated with old houses. Instead, the foyer is decorated tightly with tables and chairs; a large bookshelf is pushed against one wall, while a coat rack is adorned by several heavy winter jackets. There’s indoor heating, a massive relief; Upham is immediately enveloped by a warmth that makes him wonder why he'd spent any time outside at all. He nearly stumbles over a football on the ground, and there are a few baseball bats leaning against the side of the bookshelf. Overall, the atmosphere is much more comfortable than he expected. He'd almost call it homey, in spite of its disorganized furnishment.

The rest of the house carries on in a similar fashion. He is led by the two men through a comfy living room, a surprisingly modern kitchen, and up the stairs into a hallway lined with pictures of painted landscapes. They pass several wooden paneled doors, a few of them decorated with signs or stickers. At each door, Upham expects them to pause; but Mellish and Caparzo continue leading him to the end of the hallway.

They open the last door to another flight of stairs, leading somewhere dark. Doubtful, Upham sees no other option to follow, even as the temperature drops a good ten degrees at his ascent.

They break out into an attic, with a sloping roof that towers high over even Caparzo’s head. The room is spacious, and not crowded; a few covered pieces of furniture line the walls, but there isn't much else. A circular window is the room’s sole source of outdoor light, and it has at one point been broken. Only a skeleton of glass remains, through which light shines through in splintered fragments.

The attic is, in order: dark, dingy, dirty, drafty, and decrepit. When Upham steps forward, the floor screams; when he recoils backwards, it lets out a groan. The walls seem to shake under his scrutinizing gaze, as if ready to come down any minute, and the half-shattered window carries in a chill that causes him to quake. He turns to his roommates, ready to ask why the hell they brought him up here, when he sees the bright grins on both their faces.

“How about it?” says Mellish. “Not bad, huh?”

Oh, no. Holy shit, _no_. This is _not_ what he volunteered for.

“Wait, what? I'm not living here!”

The two ignore his alarm completely. “I'm sure it'll be real nice once you settle in,” Caparzo says. Mellish nods, offering a chipper _“comfy!”_ as he sets Upham’s last box down on the floor. The realization that they actually plan to _leave him here_ sends Upham into a state of mild panic.

“Whoa -- no!” he gasps, and the two men look surprised. “There's got to be some mistake. I -- I was expecting a room!”

Mellish spreads his arms, gesturing around. Upham is reminded of a used car salesman trying to sell a vehicle that hasn't driven in a decade. “This is one of the biggest rooms in the house! You can't get much more potential than this. Look at that molding! Look at the ceilings! The wood paneling!”

Upham makes the mistake of looking up at the ceiling, and the first thing he sees is a gaping hole in the room. A whimper escapes him.

Maybe they're done torturing him, or just don't want to bear witness to his eminent nervous breakdown, because his two roommates take this as their cue to step back. “Anyway, we've gotta go. Good luck settling in!”

“Yeah. Break a leg, Upman!” calls Caparzo, the two of them already halfway down the stairs. “See ya around!”

Upham takes another step forward, and the floor feels dangerously close to giving way beneath him. Caparzo may have meant that literally.

He considers going after the guys for a minute before realizing that it would be pointless. The last thing he wants is to start a fight on his first day. If this is the only space available in the house -- for free, too -- Upham would be naive not to take it. It's a roof over his head, at least, and somewhere safe to sleep at night.

Still, this is _not_ what he signed up for.

He had expected a bedroom. He had thought he would get a roommate, sure, but at least he expected a bed. Indoor heating, too; a light source that didn't come from a broken window; at the very least, somewhere to hang his clothes. There is nothing like that up here.

It would be easy to mope, and for a while he lets himself. The sun sinks lower in the sky, and Upham takes his time unpacking. It doesn't feel right, turning somewhere so isolated into his “home”. He doubts he could ever feel comfortable up here; it feels like something out of a horror movie.

He ventures downstairs only once, later on when his own growling stomach gets the better of him. He can hear voices from the kitchen; he recognizes Mellish among them. He hopes his new roommates have brought dinner, or that he can at least scrounge up a meal from the kitchen.

Walking downstairs, he is greeted both by old faces and new ones. In the living room, Caparzo is, for some reason, asleep on a bundle of pillows face-down on the floor. The couch is occupied by the sprawled out figure of Horvath, who doesn't so much as stir at Upham’s entrance. Curled up in an armchair, a lanky blond man watches the TV raptly, but his intense gaze flickers up at Upham’s footsteps. Across to the kitchen, Upham spots Mellish lounging against the kitchen counter. His words to the dark-haired man hunched over a plate of cold pizza die on his tongue as he locks eyes with his new roommate.

The guy eating pizza at the table takes one look at him, turns to Mellish, and demands, “Who the hell’s this junkie?”

“That's Upham,” says Mellish (at least bothering to get his name right this time). “He's not a druggie, he just comes like that. I think. Hey, Upham, you ever do LSD?”

Upham takes a few seconds to weigh his options, turns on his heel, and goes back upstairs the way he came.

By that point, he decides he has to give up on his new roommates. Mellish and Caparzo are baffling at best, Satan’s emissaries at worst (living in this attic has to be some divine punishment); the skinny guy is too intense; Horvath holds general apathy for anything and anyone that’s not sports or Professor Miller; and Pizza Guy insulted him after just one look.

He _knew_ roommates were a bad idea. At this point, Upham wonders if eviction would have been so bad.

He stays in the attic, pouring over his boxes, until late in the night. By then, it’s grown dark enough that he can't see the items in front of him. He’d resorted to using his phone flashlight; until, without warning, the light dies along with his battery. Upham fights back the urge to scream. _Perfect._

He needs to find an outlet and plug in his phone, if only to restore light to the decrepit attic. Would there even be any outlets up here? The house is ancient enough that he wouldn't be surprised if there weren't. Still, he makes himself look, shifting along the wall and squinting in light that is nearly non-existent.

He's close to the stairs when a sudden shriek startled him. Upham jumps up, only for something to flap noisily right by his ear. Something brushes his face, harsh and leathery; then the noise flies up to the ceiling. His brain only has time to register two thoughts: _bat,_ and _holy hell no._

He dives down the stairs, not even wasting his breath to scream. This is a bad idea, in retrospect, because the stairs are steep. Tumbling down them headfirst turns out to be dangerous and painful.

Upham lands hard on the hallway floor, blinking up at the ceiling. He is dazed; his heart pounds in his chest, and he can feel his pulse racing in his ears. The urge to cry is strong enough that he has to swallow hard, fighting back a lump in his throat.

This is all so _wrong_. He just wanted a place to stay, but now he's got a dark attic, and awful roommates, and _bats_ \--

And an unfamiliar voice from above him, along with a shadow that blocks out the hallway light. “Are you okay? That was a nasty fall.”

Upham turns his gaze to the left, and his first thought is that he has to be hallucinating. The stranger in front of him isn't particularly tall, but he towers over Upham on the ground; he's slender, with gentle features and blond hair. Dark eyes peer down at Upham, reserved but not masking concern. The stranger kneels down then, looking Upham in the eye, and frowns. “It looked like you hit your head.”

The back of Upham’s head does hurt. So does his ankle, which is throbbing in a way that is impossible to ignore now that he's noticed it. He sits up and winces at the pain in his head.

The stranger holds up several fingers, and Upham gives him a number dutifully. Seeming satisfied, the guy rises to his feet and gestures for Upham to do the same. His ankle throbs, but he can put weight on it; it helps when the other man offers him a hand to get off of the ground.

“What's your name?” he asks as they make their way down the hallway. He sounds genuinely inquisitive, which makes Upham realize he doesn't know. The other roommates hadn't even mentioned him?

“Tim Upham. I just moved in today.”

“Why were you up in the attic?”

Upham shoots him a baffled look, but is distracted by making his way down the next flight of stairs. The stranger helps him; and the downstairs floor appears mercifully empty when they get there. Upham sits himself down at the kitchen counter while the other man begins to bustle around, putting together an ice pack with practiced ease. A quick glance at the oven clock shows that it’s past midnight.

“My name’s Irwin Wade. Nice to meet you,” the guy says, and sounds genuine. “I've been at the hospital all day, so I just got home a little while ago. Otherwise I'd have introduced myself sooner.”

“You're a med student?” asks Upham. Wade offers him a wry little smile, as if sharing a secret between just the two of them.

“Surgical intern, actually. I just started my program up at Saint Margaret’s -- a few blocks down from here.” Upham nods, recognizing the name, and Wade beams with pride. “It's a great hospital. I've been there almost two weeks now, and there are a lot of opportunities -- so much to learn.”

“What’s your focus?”

“General surgery, at the moment. Ortho is interesting, but I think general has the most potential for me.”

“You must be good.”

Wade’s skill as a doctor is clear from the careful way he ties up Upham’s ankle with ace bandages. He still ducks his head under the praise. It doesn't make him blush or even grin, but pride resonates on his face. “Thanks,” he says. “I'm just getting started, really. There’s a lot to learn.”

Wade goes on about the hospital for a few minutes. Upham knows it's just to fill the silence, but he's grateful for friendly conversation. Wade has a soft voice, but it's pleasant to listen to, and soothing in its own way. Upham decides he likes this roommate, and the fact that he has one friend here takes a bit of the weight off his shoulders.

“But why were you in the attic, though?” Wade says again, jolting Upham out of his thoughts. “You haven't brought any of your things into the room.”

Upham blinks. “My stuff is in the attic. That's where I'm staying?” It comes out as a question, because suddenly he isn't sure, and the whole thing doesn't make sense. The underlying feeling of wrongness he's carried all day feels more prominent now, and he wonders if he's just been conned.

Wade looks thoughtful for a few seconds before it hits him; he huffs, exhaling a breath that is half-amusement, half-exasperation. “Who’d you meet first -- Reiben or Mellish?”

“Is Reiben the mean one who thinks eating frozen pizza is okay?”

This actually steals a laugh from Wade. “That’d be him.”

“I met Mellish first, and Caparzo. I thought they were _helping_.” Upham crinkles his nose, feeling a bit betrayed. He hadn't thought his roommates were the greatest guys at first, but now he realizes he'd fallen for them hook-line-and-sinker.

Wade shrugs and shakes his head, taking the half-melted ice pack from Upham. He tosses it into the trash before turning to the fridge. “Don't tell me you were up there all night. Did you eat anything?”

Upham shakes his head; this displeases Wade, because he throws open the fridge and immediately begins scanning shelves of leftovers. “That's not good. You've got to eat. Don't let them scare you off.”

For a moment Upham is indignant, until he realizes that this is exactly what he did. He was intimidated, and he got a night in the attic as a result.

Wade winds up selecting pasta and vegetables left over in a Tupperware. As it reheats in the microwave, he gestures to the closed door that splits off from the stairwell, just beside the living room. “That's Sarge’s basement. He isn't on the same floor as everyone else because he needs his space, and Miller lets him have it. Don't go down there if you want your limbs intact. I won't patch you up.”

He continues into detail about some of the other roommates. Caparzo and Mellish are trolls, but harmless overall; Jackson’s friendly enough when he's in a good mood, and hard to anger; Reiben is more bark than bite. Wade’s easy humor makes the atmosphere around him calmer, and for the first time Upham finds himself feeling comfortable in this house.

“So,” he says, almost childishly hopeful, “does that mean I don’t have to sleep in the attic?”

Wade laughs. “No. You don’t have to sleep in the attic.”

Despite it being past midnight, Wade (who’s just come off of a sixteen hour rotation) ascends the steep attic stairs with Upham and helps him carry all of his boxes downstairs. Upham is grateful he didn’t bother unpacking, especially when they get to his real bedroom and he sees an entire half of the room bare.

“It’s kind of cramped,” Wade says as he sets Upham’s boxes at the foot of his bare mattress. Upham just shakes his head; compared to his old apartment, the room could be called spacious. Even with Wade’s desk and bookshelf taking up one side of the room and his bed pushed to the wall, Upham still has enough space for a bedside table -- and his own desk, when he gets one. For now, however, there is only the skeleton of a bed, and pale imprints on one wall where posters must have once hung.

Wade is a neat roommate. His side of the room looks immaculate, save for a rumpled bedspread and a laptop open on his bed. Upham feels a flash of guilt for the mess he will inevitably bring, but this -- like everything else -- can be saved for another day.

He collapses down on the bed, uncaring that he is still dresses. Wade can’t help laughing as Upham groans, sinking into the mattress. “Tired?”

“You have no idea.”

“Get some rest.” Wade says this in the manner of a person used to taking care of people -- who, perhaps, even enjoys it. He sounds chiding but gentle at the same time, and Upham can immediately tell why he makes a good doctor.

He doesn’t need to be told twice. It is all too easy to curl up on the mattress and drift off. The light still shining from Wade’s laptop doesn’t bother him; hor do the soft clicking noises of his keyboard. Even Upham’s lack of a blanket can be ignored as exhaustion settles in on him. He closes his eyes and immediately feels himself fading. His last conscious thought is a resolution that he isn’t going to open his eyes until morning.

He should really know better.

He isn't sure what time it is when he's woken up again. The room is still dark, save for the persistent light of Wade’s laptop, and his head is foggy enough to suggest that he's been sleeping for a while.

No matter how groggy he is, he's roused into wakefulness within seconds by the sound of banging -- loud, rhythmic, and sharp -- coming from the room next door. It sounds as if someone is slamming furniture against the wall with brutal force -- and the racket is made even more obscene by the unmuffled moaning from the next room.

“What’shat?” he slurs, sitting up. Wade is staring at his laptop screen with a determined poker face, but his dark eyes flicker up when he realized Upham is awake. It takes a few seconds for the noise to make sense to Upham’s tired mind; when it does, he buries his burning face in his hands with a groan. “Oh. My _god_.”

“Jackson must be out,” Wade says, and that's the only explanation offered. A euphoric shout of _“holy fuck!”_ rings clearly through the wall. Wade flinches, and Upham pretends he doesn't notice. “Caparzo can sleep through anything.”

“What -- what about Mellish?” Upham hisses. _“Horvath?”_ He wouldn't put it above the TA to hang anyone who dares interrupt his sleep out the nearest window, and drop them.

“Sarge’s all the way in the basement. Mellish isn't the confrontation type; he'll get his revenge tomorrow. Don't eat anything he cooks for you.”

The banging seems to grow even louder. Wade grinds his teeth. Upham sinks into the mattress and lets out a pitiful whimper.

From how unimpressed Wade is, Upham figures this isn't an unusual occurrence. He isn't expecting anything to be done, which is why he's surprised when after a few seconds his roommate abruptly rises from his bed. For just a second there is a flash of something startling in Wade’s eyes -- a fire-hot anger, smouldering deep under the surface, lying in wait for the spark to set it alight. He rises from the bed and strides across the room with such purpose that Upham feels a little bad for whoever will be on the receiving end of that wrath. A truly angry Wade, he decides, is not something he ever wants to face.

The door slams shut behind Wade, and it’s only a few seconds before he can hear angry voices from the hall. It's obvious that both parties are making an effort to muffle their argument, so Upham can't make out what's being said. He can hear Wade’s voice, low with anger, as well as another thick with a Brooklyn accent.

It's a minute before Wade strides back into the room, shutting the door behind him. He doesn't say anything, but he looks pleased with himself. As he settles back onto his bed, he offers Upham a tight-lipped nod.

From then on, the room next door is silent. Their neighbor and whoever he brought home have taken the hint to turn it down, and Upham almost feels like crying from sheer relief.

“Thank you.”

The bright glare of his laptop is reflected in the inky pools of Wade’s eyes. “Don't mention it.”

He's lucky as hell to be rooming with Wade, Upham realizes. He could have gotten anyone else; the fact that he’s sharing space with someone decent and _nice_ is such a relief that Upham could laugh out loud. It would be nice to be friends with Wade. He hopes that’s how this _roommate_ thing will go. Maybe he can even build bridges with the rest of the guys, too.

Then again, it isn't like Upham has much experience with this. Wherever living here takes him, he can only hope that tomorrow will be an easier day.

“Get some rest, Upham,” Wade says for the second time that night, and Upham nods his head as he settles back down for the night. This time, he hopes to get to sleep for good.


End file.
